


i open myself one stitch at a time

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 09:53:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8974921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: They take a vacation. Ostensibly, it’s as friends - that’s the line they tell people when asked. They’re not sure anyone’s buying their cover, but, as Serena says, it’s important to maintain the appearance of propriety. Bernie isn’t quite sure she agrees, but since coming back from Kiev, she’s decided to follow Serena’s lead





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missparker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/gifts).



> Because Jess asked.

_Goodbye until tomorrow_  
_Goodbye until the rest of my life_  
_And I have been waiting  
I have been waiting for you_

__Goodbye Until Tomorrow (The Last Five Years)_ _

 

 

\- - -

They take a vacation. Ostensibly, it’s as friends - that’s the line they tell people when asked. They’re not sure anyone’s buying their cover, but, as Serena says, it’s important to maintain the appearance of propriety. Bernie isn’t quite sure she agrees, but since coming back from Kiev, she’s decided to follow Serena’s lead. “In this matter, or in all matters?” Serena asks, her eyebrow raised in mock challenge.

They had two days, two whole days. Two days of each other and a hotel room and perfect strangers. Two days away from pagers and prying eyes and the everyday banalities that kept them apart, when all they wanted to to do was drink in each other. Two days.

Bernie picks Serena up, is happy to drive, enjoys the feeling of the steering wheel beneath her hands, the sense of control she feels, enjoys that this is one small thing that she can do for Serena. “It’ll be a proper road trip,” Serena says with a laugh, winding Bernie up, “Girl talk and soul-bearing and all those things you hate.”  “But you don’t want me to tell you everything. A woman has to have some mystery about her,” Bernie says, and Serena only huffs out another laugh. “If you were any more mysterious, they’d have you on bloody Sherlock.”

When Serena opens her front door and Bernie catches sight of the size of her suitcase, she can only shake her head. “Figures,” she mutters, with no real bite to her voice as she pulls on the lever to release the boot. Unlocking the doors, she unfolds her long limbs from the car and stands, waiting to lift the luggage into the back of her car, knowing Serena is biting back a remark about the macho army medic, then opens the passenger door to allow Serena to settle herself in the seat.

When they’re both seated, Serena presents her cheek for a peck, but Bernie ducks her head to catch her full on the mouth, a brief, but far from friendly, kiss. Serena smiles with satisfaction and a tinge of smugness, no surprise in her eyes at all. “We’re not at the hospital, no need for propriety here,” Bernie says quietly, not quite meeting Serena’s eyes. She wants to make sure Serena knows how much Bernie wants this, how much she’s thought of it, how much she’s thought of nothing else but easy intimacies and gentle touches between the two of them.

Serena coughs, hiding a blush, notes the two coffee cups in their holders, one missing a lid and half empty, the other sealed and when she presses her hand to it, still warm. “That’s for you,” Bernie says as she slides in. “Strong and hot.” They share a smile at the phrase they now share, a testament to their early days. (“Strong and hot” is something Serena whispers against Bernie’s lips one night and Bernie’s face turns a deeper shade of pink than previously seen, making Serena’s lips quirk in enjoyment. It’s a face Bernie holds in her mind’s eye as she drives home, a face that reassures her that coming back to Holby was more than worth it.)

 

\- - -

 

“What do you have planned for this evening?” Serena asks after a bit. They decided to take turns planning their nights - they could only manage a weekend away, but it made the divvying up of details all the easier; Bernie responsible for Friday, Serena for Saturday, and a shared breakfast before returning to real life, propriety, and wagging tongues. The tongue-wagging no longer bothers Serena, she bore the brunt of it without Bernie, but now with Bernie back at her side, the two of them can shoulder anything that comes at them together.

“Was I supposed to plan something?” False innocence is a tact Bernie tries all too often, but it’s one that never fails to elicit a smile from Serena, who lightly bats Bernie’s arm. Bernie takes a hand off the wheel to catch Serena’s, squeezing it gently, before dropping it in favor of reaching out to delicately touch Serena’s neck, to rest her hand atop Serena’s shoulder.

“Dinner, if you must be so nosy,” Bernie says, a small smile on her face. It’s a facial expression that doesn’t come easy to her thin lips, always feeling a bit strained. But she smiles more with Serena than she can ever remember before in her life. Serena’s experiencing a renaissance as a mid-life lesbian, perhaps Bernie is experiencing one as a mid-life cheerful person.

“Just dinner?” Innocence fits Serena no better than it fits Bernie, and Bernie offers a light shoulder squeeze in response. “Not on your life,” she answers. “I expect the local wildlife will feel the need to relocate for the night.” Serena laughs at that, full-throated, and Bernie catches herself feeling envious of how easily Serena can express her emotions.

 

\- - -

 

An hour into the drive, Serena can tell that Bernie is getting uncomfortable, shifting in her seat, stretching out her tight back muscles. “Let’s pull over for a bit, I could stretch my legs,” she says, knowing Bernie would never ask, would never say that she was in pain unless pressed. Obligingly, Bernie flicks on her turn signal at the next rest area, and easily pulls into a parking space. She leans forward over the steering wheel, trying to loosen the tight feeling before standing up. Serena opens her door, gets out of the car and leans against it, breathing in the fresh air, coloring slightly when she thinks that the only smell she’s been inhaling for the past hour is Bernie.

Bernie joins Serena in her leaning, and they watch cars whizzing by them on the highway. “You can tell me when your back hurts,” Serena says quietly. “You don’t always have to be strong with me.” Bernie feels a lump in her throat, doesn’t know what to say, just bumps her shoulder against Serena’s in acknowledgement.

They’re quiet as they get back into the car, only an hour left ahead of them, but the mood has shifted slightly. Serena lets her hand drift across the gearshift, settles it lightly on Bernie’s seat, letting her fingers wedge underneath her thigh. Bernie smiles one of her tight, happy smiles at the touch, keeping both hands on the wheel.

 

\- - -

 

The inn is nice enough - Serena selected it, knowing that if Bernie were put in charge, they could end up in some roach-ridden hostel, sharing a bedroom with five strangers. The lobby is welcoming, a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace, a tea service set out for guests to help themselves. Serena catches Bernie’s hand as they walk in, and Bernie doesn’t pull away, entwining their fingers and squeezing gently.

“Ah, a room for Campbell, please,” Serena says to the woman at the front desk, her voice turning authoritative. Bernie is leaning on the tall counter, looking through the brochures of local activities: nature trails, antique shops, quaint eateries. “Afraid you’ll get bored?” Serena pitches her voice low, for only Bernie to hear, a smile dancing in her eyes.

“Hardly. Just thought we might need to have something to tell the people back in Holby when they ask what we got up to on our time away,” she answers quickly, her tone wry. “Think they’ll believe you went on a nature walk?”

“In these shoes? Not bloody likely,” Serena answers, lifting her leg a few inches from the ground, twisting her ankle this way and that to show off her elegant heels. Bernie laughs, short and staccato, and then they’re handed their keys and directed to the elevators on their left.

 

\- - -

 

The room is even nicer than the lobby, cozy and warm, the bed already turned down. Bernie sits with a _thwump_ on the bed and eases back slowly, looking up at the ceiling, hands at her sides. “Flip over,” Serena says from above her. Bernie props herself on her elbows, her face a question. “Flip over. I know your back must be killing.” This time, her tone brooks no argument and Bernie complies. As Serena’s hands lift the hem of Bernie’s shirt, Serena can feel her back tense up. “At ease, soldier,” she murmurs, continuing to raise her shirt up.

Bernie lets out a breath, tries to calm herself as Serena’s warm, strong hands gently begin stroking the length of her back. She finds the sore spots easily enough, noting Bernie’s slight hiss of pain as she passes by each one. Her fingers circle the painful areas, rubbing and massaging, thankful for the rotation of physical therapy long ago, lessons she somehow retained despite the years.

When Bernie seems relaxed, Serena leans down, places a soft kiss on her spine, kisses the trail of her back up to her neck before smoothing her shirt back down, one final pat of her hand at her hip. Bernie lets out a satisfied grunt at the contact and turns her head to face Serena. “You didn’t have to do that,” she says, her voice rough and sleepy-sounding. “But it was very nice.” Though Serena can only see half of her face, she can see that Bernie is smiling.

“Just trying to make sure you can make the drive back. I rather fancy being chauffeured around,” Serena says. Bernie, endearingly, slides her way closer to Serena, until they are flush against one another. They sit like that, quiet and still, until Serena notices that Bernie has matched her breathing, feels them exhale in tandem, feels the swell of her chest as they inhale in time.

“Tempting to skip dinner,” Bernie says, breaking the silence and Serena feels the blush spread across her face. She looks at Bernie, whose eyes are closed, whose face is still half smashed into the bedspread, and finds it ridiculous that this woman can say the most disarming things while half comatose.

“I think we may need sustenance to keep our strength up,” Serena counters, her voice husky and low, and this is what makes Bernie open her eyes and smile a slow, sly smile that makes Serena feel a tingle all the way down to her toes. “You may be right about that,” she agrees, finally making a move to push herself up from the bed.

 

\- - -

 

There are restaurants close by. Serena wonders if Bernie picked one at random, or if she’d looked at menus online, trying to figure out what would most please her dinner companion. They walk from the inn, their shoulders touching, fingers flirting with each other but not actually grasping. Bernie stops them in front of an Italian restaurant, small and brightly lit from within. “This all right?” she asks, as if Serena would say no to anything that involves Bernie and food and wine and candlelight.

They walk in, Bernie gives her name to the hostess, and they are seated, right in the window. “Raf always says they seat the pretty people in the windows,” Serena says.

They eat. Serena thinks the food is good, but she’s not really thinking of the food. She’s watching Bernie. Watching Bernie spear a noodle, wrap it around her fork. Watching Bernie sip wine, the undulations of her throat mesmerizing. Watching Bernie watch her, eyes dark.

For Bernie’s part, she can’t even think of anything to say to Serena. This all just seems like a stalling tactic, like something that’s keeping them from the thing they really want to be doing. Serena gets a bit of sauce on her cheek and Bernie reaches up to wipe it away without a second thought, her thumb gently brushing against Serena’s lips before moving away. Serena’s mouth opens, ever so slightly, and her face goes a shade darker, something she blames on the Shiraz.

They are distracted, they are on edge, they know what’s coming next. Somehow the bill gets paid, their coats put back on, mints grabbed from the bowl by the door, conspiratorial grins as they each pop the red-striped candy in their mouths. They walk back to the inn without comment, shoulders brushing each other as they walk too close together, but not close enough all at once.

 

\- - -

 

There’s sex, and then there’s sex with Bernie, Serena learns.

There is an inexorable draw between them; undeniable, even when one of them has fled the country. They will always return to each other, it seems. This is just as true when they are stood in the same room, facing each other. Serena moves slowly, cautiously, as if aware that any sudden movement might scare Bernie away, like a frightened deer, all long limbs and wide eyes. They meet in the middle, a grasping, gasping kiss, hands roving backs, tangling hair, lifting shirt hems. When Serena feels the touch of Bernie’s fingers against her stomach for the first time, she freezes and Bernie pulls back immediately to look her in the eyes. “All right?” she asks quietly, and Serena knows how scared Bernie is that Serena will decide she doesn’t want this, that it’s just a passing fancy.

“Never better,” Serena says on an exhale, “I just didn’t know….what it would feel like.” It felt perfect, it felt supremely erotic, it felt like no one had ever touched her bare skin before, it felt _right_. She feels a bit silly for these hyperbolic thoughts, but she also feels as though they’re true. She reaches for Bernie’s hand and moves it back under her blouse, and leans forward to kiss Bernie lightly, benevolently, on the cheek - a reassurance.

They’ve done things in the past. They’ve been horizontal on Serena’s couch, and they’ve had their hands up each other’s shirts on Bernie’s futon, Serena just massaged Bernie’s bloody back, but this is different, because this comes with the promise that there will be _more_ , and there will be more _soon_.

Bernie kisses Serena again, open mouthed, her tongues sliding between Serena’s lips, her hand sliding between Serena’s legs, cupping her trousers and making Serena twitch. Serena can feel Bernie’s mouth transform into a smile as she pulls away. Bernie’s hands go to Serena’s clothes, go to unbuttoning her blouse, lifting it off her body, running her hands against the smooth skin, now bare. Serena inanely thinks of how long it’s been since that part of her saw the sun, but Bernie doesn’t seem to mind, placing wet kisses against Serena’s clavicle, her belly button, her hip, as her fingers unhook Serena’s bra.

Serena slides her trousers down her legs, dislodging Bernie’s mouth momentarily, but Bernie, kneeling down, greedily returns to the new vistas that have been unveiled for her, Serena’s thighs receiving Bernie’s benevolent kisses, her rear smoothed by Bernie’s confident hands, her underwear being pulled down with insistent teeth.

And then Serena is naked. Serena Campbell is naked in front of a fully-clothed Bernie Wolfe, and she finds herself without a shred of self-doubt. How could she feel anything but glorious when Bernie is looking at her with wide, wanton eyes, with a mouth gaping slightly open, with a look on her face that says Serena is everything she’s ever wanted.

“I think you’ve got too much on, Major,” Serena says, her voice shaky with want, with happiness, with need. Bernie stands and assuredly pulls her shirt over her head and shrugs off her bra while stepping out of her jeans. Serena can’t stop herself from running her hands down the planes of Bernie’s shoulder, pausing over the scars she’s felt but hasn’t seen, then grips Bernie’s hips, pulls her close, her fingers indenting Bernie’s skin.

They meet in a kiss, unhurried and languid, as they enjoy the feel of skin on skin for the first time, and Serena forgets to feel like a silly middle-aged woman as Bernie fills her thoughts, as Bernie’s hand finds its way back between her thighs, as Bernie moves them towards the bed. All Serena can think is “yes” and “finally” and “this” and nothing else and it is perfect.

Bernie’s fingers slide through the coarse hair at the apex of Serena’s thighs, dragging the moisture through the curls before becoming immersed in her wet heat, pulsing with desire. Serena has used her own fingers, she has had men use theirs, but there is something different about Bernie’s fingers, about her confident manipulation, her insistent focus on bringing Serena to a blithering heap. Serena has always known Bernie has the mind and focus of a soldier, and is relentless when given a mission, but to have her pleasure as Bernie’s sole objective, and to have her body as Bernie’s sole focus is a heady feeling. She lets out a moan at the twist of Bernie’s fingers and can feel Bernie smirk against her throat. “I had a feeling you’d be loud.” Serena wants to say that Bernie isn’t psychic, that Serena has moaned more loudly than this when they’ve been on her couch, but as Bernie’s mouth moves over hers, she finds she doesn’t need to point that out at this very moment.

Bernie watches the play of emotion on Serena’s face, enjoys the way her mouth goes slack, that this indomitable woman quivers and shakes and moans and gasps. She kisses Serena, full and strong, moves to kiss her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, her breasts. Her breasts. Were Bernie prone to soliloquies or words of praise, she might go on endlessly about Serena’s breasts, their heft and softness, the dusky color of her nipples, the way Serena starts as Bernie gently scrapes a finger along the sensitive nub.

She continues traveling down Serena’s body, her fingers still inside Serena. Serena, who has fisted her own fingers in the sheets, lets out another moan and bites her lip in a way that startles Bernie with its eroticism. She halts her progress to take in the woman laid out in front of her, lets her eyes take in the flushed face, the mussed hair, the eyes that look at Bernie as if she’s hung the moon. _I recognize the symptoms_ , echoes in Bernie’s head and the force of Serena’s love hit her like a train.

“You can’t stop,” Serena says, whispers, gasps. Bernie, ever the obedient soldier, ducks her head to join her hand, her tongue sliding in next to her fingers and she feels Serena’s thighs tighten around her. She moves her hand, placing it against Serena’s leg, holding it slightly away from her face as she begins to truly begin the process of making Serena come. This is what she’s been waiting for, the smell and taste of Serena filling her senses, taking over her mind, and she thinks there’s never anything else that will smell or taste as good again. And with one purposeful and deep swipe of her tongue, Serena lets out a sound that fills the room and her whole body tenses like a rubber band pulled tight, before sagging back into the bed, Her hands scrabble at Bernie’s hair, trying to pull her up alongside her.

As Bernie moves next to her, Serena kisses her, her scalp, her forehead, her nose, finally her mouth, and makes a noise when she realizes the new taste is _her_. “It’s a good thing we didn’t skip dinner,” is all she says because it doesn’t feel enough to say “thank you” or “that was nice.” Because what she means is “you are everything” and “don’t ever leave me again” and “I can’t believe what I’ve been missing” and “I love you.”

 

\- - -

 

They lay together, facing each other, two halves, a mirror. Bernie is happy to just look at Serena through half-lidded eyes, her mouth set in a smile. Serena, however, takes the opportunity to let her hands drift over Bernie’s skin, warm and smooth. She watches the play of Bernie’s face as she touches this spot and that, the quirk of her lips when she finds the ticklish spot in her side.

“Can I…” Serena trails off, unsure of how to ask for what she wants, unsure of how to begin. Bernie’s smile widens, and she turns over to lay on her back, sinuous and tempting. Her arms reach above her head, stretching, and Serena tracks the movement of her breasts with hungry eyes. “You can,” Bernie answers the unspoken question and Serena moves, then, leveraging herself over Bernie, straddling her, not quite believing that she’s doing this, that they’re here, that their naked skin is touching, finally, _finally_.

Serena bends down, ghosting her lips over Bernie’s, her hands moving in parallel down her torso, cupping the small breasts below her, thumbs toying with the pert nipples. “Ambidextrous?” Bernie breathes, and Serena feels it’s the most erotic word she’s ever heard. “Only in this,” is her answer, and she feels, rather than sees, Bernie’s answering chuckle.

If Serena is nervous, Bernie never would have guessed. She wonders how Serena was on her first day as an F1 - has she always projected confidence? Has she always been able to go after what she wants? Bernie’s confidence has been learned, carefully built, a wall she can hide behind. Serena’s is a welcoming confidence - she brings others in, lets them share in her abilities, bestows it on them like a gift. Serena is confident now and she cants her hips, the slight friction making them both gasp, their bodies keyed up and sensitive.

If anything, Serena is a fast learner, keenly observant. Bernie notices she’s repeating the things that Bernie did earlier, the same movement in her fingers, notices how carefully Serena is watching her face. “There’s no test,” Bernie reminds her. “I think we’ve already both aced the course.” Serena only offers an enigmatic look, continuing her ministrations, her face flushing as Bernie’s breath speeds up.

It takes a bit of time, longer than it took Bernie, but Bernie isn’t keeping score. When she comes, her mouth buried in Serena’s neck, she feels Serena pull back, and knows, somehow, that the first words out of her mouth are going to be an apology. Instead, Bernie follows Serena’s movement, stops her mouth from opening with a sloppy kiss. She touches her forehead to Serena’s, whispers, “Thank you,” because how could this woman apologize for perfection?

“I’ll do better next ti-” Serena’s words are cut off with another kiss. There has been enough _angst_ , enough worrying, enough apologies. Those don’t belong here. There’s barely room for air between their bodies, there’s no room for anything else, just them.

“I love you,” Bernie says quietly, because she thinks maybe Serena doesn’t know, because she thinks maybe Serena feels like she has to prove herself in some way. She’s turned her face away, her fringe hiding her eyes, but Serena is still on top of her, and Bernie can’t really hide anything from Serena anyway, not anymore.

Her eyes are wide, like she never expected to hear those words from Bernie, and Bernie almost wishes she’d said them sooner (but knows she never would have). Serena leverages herself off of Bernie, lays next to her, her eyes still wide, but full of warmth, full of affection. Her hand strokes Bernie’s cheek, lifts a finger to the bridge of her nose. Bernie catches Serena’s hand in her own, presses a kiss to her palm, then moves their joined hands to rest over her heart. “Let’s sleep,” is all she says, and closes her eyes, experimentally flexing her fingers against Serena’s, who squeezes her hand back.

“Good night,” Serena whispers, and they both know what she means is “I love you I love you I love you.”

 

\- - -

 

They wake, sunlight peeking around the edge of the drawn curtains. Bernie’s hair is an ungodly bird’s nest, straw-colored and sticking out at all angles. Serena has taken up most of the real estate on the bed, her foot nestled between Bernie’s shins, her body diagonal, her face mashed into the pillow, deep lines from the sheet etched in her skin. They are neither of them at their best in the morning.

“Coffee,” is the first thing out of Serena’s mouth and Bernie’s chuckle comes out raspy. “I’ll see what I can do.” She slides out of bed, runs a hand through her hair, pulls it back into a ponytail, pulls an overlarge sweatshirt over her head, slides on last night’s trousers. “I’ll be back,” she whispers, but isn’t sure Serena hasn’t gone back to sleep already, isn’t sure Serena doesn’t just ask for things in her unconscious state.

It’s to the smell of coffee and pastry that Serena properly wakes to later, and she rolls over, still naked, to see Bernie looking down at her with no small amount of affection, holding a steaming mug and a napkin which can only contain a croissant.

“Thanks,” she says, sitting up and pulling the sheet with her, tucking it under her arms as she reaches for her breakfast. Bernie pouts, a little, “You’re covering up an amazing view,” she says, and Serena thinks she’ll never really tire of flirting with this woman.

Breakfast is eaten, crumbs brushed from the covers, coffee-stained kisses shared. Showers are had, separate, so they’ll actually get clean. Bernie is getting dressed as Serena is toweling her hair dry, and the pure domesticity of it all is somewhat arresting. Bernie leans against the doorframe of the bathroom, watching Serena put on mascara, blot her cheeks with rouge, swipe her lips with red. “Need the mirror?” she asks with a grin, knowing Bernie is as ready as she’ll be, just a coat of clear lip gloss, a once-over from a brush.

 

\- - -

 

They don’t have a plan, not really. Bernie seems content to stroll through the streets of the small town, her hand in Serena’s, her face tilted towards the sun. A macho, army medic _sunflower_ , Serena thinks, grateful for a bright day, that the normal gloom and rain of England has taken a break.

This is easy, it seems. Whatever it is between them, it is easier than it’s ever been. Serena doesn’t know if that’s because there’s no one they know around, or if it’s because Bernie has really changed, has really accepted who and what she is, and who and what she loves. Or if it’s a combination of everything.

“I’d hold your hand in Holby, too,” Bernie says, as if reading Serena’s mind. She doesn’t remind Serena of the time when she reached for her hand, and Serena pulled away. She doesn’t remind Serena that she’s the one who put constraints on when and where they show affection. She doesn’t do any of these things because she thinks Serena’s afraid Bernie will leave again if she asks for too much, that maybe she thinks she’s walking a fine line before it all gets to Bernie again.

If only it was as easy to fix what her leaving did as it was to leave. Bernie sighs lightly, drawing Serena’s gaze. “I’m here,” is what she offers, and hopes Serena understands the depth and myriad meanings in that phrase. She is here with Serena, now. She will be wherever Serena is, in the future. She is as invested in this as she’s been in anything her entire life. She is learning not to run, and she is learning because of Serena, who kept her arms open and waiting for Bernie to return.

 

\- - -

 

The day passes quickly enough, almost in a blur. They’re just happy to be with each other, to have uninterrupted time together. Personal space seems to no longer exist with them, they’ve become used to bumping shoulders, to fingers touching, to craning their necks in order to make eye contact. They do this at the hospital, ignoring the knowing looks that follow them. “A couple of gal pals,” Morven said one day, but there’s a tone to her voice that makes them both think they missed some sort of joke.

Bernie kisses Serena’s cheek as they sit down for lunch, lets their knees touch under the table without moving away. She’s better at the public intimacy than Serena is, more used to showing affection to a woman. Serena, for her part, is doing her best to catch up, with not worrying about what strangers might think of two older women holding hands, with brushing a lock of Bernie’s hair behind her ear, with leaning in to point out a shirt in the window of a shop, every small action whispering of intimacy and care.

They go shopping, of course. Serena says she never comes back from vacation without at least one new item of clothing. Bernie, laughing, tries to talk her into a very out-moded sweater in one of the antique shops, heavily embroidered and sequined. “It’s memorable!” she cries out and Serena just smiles her satisfied smile, taking the sweater off the hanger and models it for an amused Bernie, who isn’t quite fast enough with her phone to snap a picture.

There is a little boutique on the main road through town, breezy blouses and flowy scarves. Bernie spots it from across the street and pulls Serena in, knowing it’s exactly the place where Serena will find whatever it is she’s looking for. They spend too long there, Bernie lounging in a chair outside of the dressing room, her long legs crossed, one foot wiggling with boredom. Serena makes a choice, doesn’t show Bernie, and pays for it, quickly slipping the bag in her purse, away from prying eyes.

“You haven’t bought naughty lingerie, have you? I’ll feel woefully inadequate if that’s the case,” Bernie says, feinting a grab towards Serena’s bag, but it’s moved out of her reach. Serena’s only answer is to say, primly, “You’ve never been inadequate in your life, Berenice Wolfe.”

 

\- - -

 

Dinner is standard British fare - there’s not much variety on offer in this little hamlet, but it’s a good standard, meat and potatoes and far too much gravy. They have wine, and it’s cozy, and they’re seated in a strange little rounded booth where it makes more sense to sit next to each other, thighs touching. It’s easy to take food off Bernie’s plate this way, Serena notes, sampling this and that whenever Bernie’s set down her utensils to drink from her wine glass.

“Should we switch meals?” Bernie asks, eyeing Serena’s forgotten chicken. Serena only shrugs and continues to forage on Bernie’s plate, finding the perfect length of asparagus to bring back over to her own plate.

The waiter comes by to fill their glasses once more. When he leaves, Bernie raises her glass. “A toast. To us. To what we’ve gone thr - to what I’ve put us through, to what we are now, and to what we will be.” Serena amiably clinks her glass against Bernie’s and takes a deep sip. She doesn’t need Bernie to apologize forever, but she’ll still accept the regret for now.

“And what will we be, Ms. Wolfe?” she asks, her voice throaty and wine-rich. Bernie smolders across the rim of her glass, her irises dark, her pupils wide. “Naked,” she murmurs and takes another sip of the dark red wine, enjoying Serena’s blush that has nothing to do with alcohol.

 

\- - -

 

And they are naked, soon enough. Bernie has the decency to wait until the door is closed before descending upon Serena, lifting up her shirt, throwing it to the ground. She undresses first this time, an easy grace to her movements. Serena watches, still slightly in awe that this woman has deemed Serena worthy of her time, is currently stripping down in front of her.

Bernie grasps Serena’s hand and makes to pull her towards the bed, but Serena resists, pulling Bernie back to her. She takes the hint, pushes Serena against the wall, kisses her, strong and full. _Strong and hot_ , Serena thinks idly as Bernie’s hand pushes its way into her trousers, pushes past her underwear, pushes inside her. And then Bernie’s other hand lifts Serena’s leg, encouraging it to wrap around her. And, due to no small miracle, Bernie is holding Serena up against the wall, Serena’s legs up in a position they haven’t been in some time. They haven’t done this vertically, she hasn’t done this airborne. Bernie’s breath comes heavy and hot, her hand moving quick and fast. This is more like fucking than what they did last night. Serena ruts against Bernie’s hand, biting into Bernie’s shoulder, her legs tightening around Bernie, thankful for the muscles that the army toned and strengthened.

Serena comes with a sharp gasp, and feels grateful to be held up by Bernie, because her legs don’t feel quite like they’d be able to support her weight. Now, Bernie takes the opportunity to bring them to the bed, to lay Serena down gently, to finish taking off her clothes. Serena reaches out to touch the already-forming bruise on Bernie’s shoulder, reaches up to lave it with her tongue, feeling proud that she has left her mark on this woman in that way.

Bernie drops back onto the bed, flush with Serena from stem to stern, calming her breath like she used to have to do when panic would set in. Serena waits a moment, finds her courage, and begins to kiss a path down to Serena’s navel, her tongue swirling around the indent there before moving further down, finding it’s goal.

 _The alphabet_ , she tells herself, remembering something she’d read somewhere. _Capitals or lowercase?_ is a thought she thinks which almost makes her snort, if she weren’t so frightened of doing something wrong. And tentatively she begins with “A,” wondering if she should try cursive, if her movements are too studied, too halting to bring Bernie any pleasure. “B” is met with a moan, and Serena thinks she’s doing all right, breathes a sigh of relief into Bernie, which is received with a shiver. She abandons the order of the alphabet, tongues an “E,” an “R,” an “N,” an “I,” and finally, another “E.”

She feels Bernie’s walls contract, shake. She _feels_ Bernie in a way she’s never felt. She _tastes_ Bernie. She’s never tasted Bernie before, not like this. The flavor in her mouth is _nothing_ like this. This makes Serena think of so many things, of hot deserts, of deep red wine, of Berenice Wolfe. There’s a pattern she finds, moving her head, moving her mouth, sucking and tonguing and laving and nipping, oh so gently. She is still new, still learning, still unsure, but she promises herself, promises Bernie, that she will get better, be the best, be worthy.

She thinks she might have found a new definition when Bernie quakes and shudders, a soft, satisfied sigh escaping from her lips, a sound so gentle it makes Serena’s heart ache. She licks her lips, withdraws from between Bernie’s legs, and joins her at the head of the bed, sharing the pillow with Bernie, nose just touching Bernie’s ear, breath tickling the lobe.

Bernie is quiet, recovering. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined that would happen to her, for her. That Serena Campbell would bend between her legs and lick her into an orgasm. The thought of that brunette head between Bernie’s legs will stay with her forever, and Bernie isn’t quite sure she’ll ever be able to think of anything else.

They fall asleep, quickly, their bodies arced towards each other, their breaths even. Serena’s final thought before her eyes close is that even in this, they are the perfect team.

 

\- - -

 

The morning comes too quickly. The end of their vacation comes too quickly. Serena feels slightly panicked, as if they should’ve done more, said more. But Bernie quietly reassures her that they’ll make time when they’re at home, that this is too important to keep it to stolen weekends and tucked away inns. Serena believes her.

Serena gets coffee this morning, only one large mug, forcing them to sit quite close on the bed and share, but Bernie seems to have no complaints, her hair as tousled as it was the morning before. She stands to go to the bathroom, gloriously naked and all legs, and Serena blows a cheeky kiss after her, thinking _that woman just came from my bed_.

The shower turns on, and Bernie peeks her head around the door. “Coming?” she asks, cocking her head towards the tub, where steam is already beginning to tendril. Serena needs no further invitation, scrambling from the bed, pushing the sheets aside, almost tripping in her haste. Bernie laughs fondly, grabs Serena’s hand to stabilize her. “We have time, dearest,” she says and Serena has never heard a sweeter endearment.

The shower is similar to being fucked against the wall last night, and different all at once. It is hot and wet and slippery and there is actual steam, not just imagined, and Serena never wants to shower alone again, arriving to work on time be damned. She imagines tomorrow morning’s shower will feel very lonely. Bernie soaps her hands, rubbing the foam over Serena’s wet body, giving certain parts of her anatomy special attention, Serena laughing and batting away Bernie’s hands before running her own hands into Bernie’s hair, the strands slick and smooth. They kiss under the spray, water pouring down their faces, into their eyelashes, and all Serena can think is how perfect it all feels.

 

\- - -

 

The drive back to Holby doesn’t feel sad, even though Bernie thought it might. They’re too keyed up, too taken with each other. This doesn’t feel like an end, it feels like a beginning, like the start of something real and something permanent. Like something that isn’t frightening. Bernie likes that she isn’t frightened. That maybe she’s enough for Serena, that she can make this work, even though past performance would indicate otherwise.

Serena’s hand is resting easily on Bernie’s thigh, occasionally twitching in time with the radio. They are quiet, enjoying the silence between them. It’s comfortable, unstrained. There’s nothing to be said. Words seem a little trite, right now, anyway. Bernie is sure they’ll have conversations about where this is going soon enough, is sure that Jason will ask questions at the hospital tomorrow that will leave their mouths going like goldfish as they search for answers. Better that they’ll do it together, though, than have to answer those questions alone.

Bernie pulls up in front of Serena’s door far too soon. The drive seemed much shorter than it did on their way out. Bernie walks Serena to the door, her luggage in hand. “Be sure to wear your new shirt tomorrow,” she says before leaning in to kiss her good-bye. Serena prolongs the kiss, doesn’t let Bernie pull away quickly. Then it ends, and they stand, their mouths so close, but not quite touching, their breath mingling. “I have to leave,” Bernie says, “Or I won’t leave at all.”

“Is that so bad?” Serena asks, knowing she sounds a little desperate, doesn’t care, not this time. Bernie laughs. “No, not bad. But I’m not sure Jason’s ready for a live show, and if you let me into your house right now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself.” Serena shouldn’t feel desperate; Bernie wants this just as much.

One more kiss, quick and light, and Bernie has hopped off the stoop, is loping to her car. She pauses before opening her door to watch Serena unlock her house, let herself in. They wave to each other, Bernie’s a small, half-closed hand, a brief movement, Serena’s an open-handed back and forth accompanied by a warm smile. Then her front door closes, and Bernie gets into her car, and drives home. They’ll see each other tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know. I don't watch this show. I just want these two ladies to be happy.


End file.
